Courage the Badger
by Sorge
Summary: It is 1941. The London Blitz rages on and the Germans mass for an attack across the Channel. Martin Miller is afraid that he will have to take part in the fighting. But when an old wardrobe magically transports him to a strange land where he meets a talking badger and the cruel White Witch, he may find that he has a part to play after all in the battle for Narnia.


_Preface:_

 _Do you like Narnia? You probably do, or you would not really be here. I do. For a long time, I've been an avid fan of both the books and the movie adaptations of C.S. Lewis' children's series. I think on some level we'd all like very much to spend a day or two inside another world. I wrote this borne of a simple desire to do just that. What would happen if a character very much like myself were to encounter adventure in Narnia? Well, here is the answer. Not very much, I am afraid. But there is no real knowing: this is a work of fiction. So we shall see what happens. This story can be read safely without getting in the way of what you already know and love about Narnia. It takes place (perhaps a little uncreatively) only a little before the events of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe and in 1941, during the events of the Blitz. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

You've probably already heard the story of four extraordinary children, and how they got into a magical land through the back of a wardrobe and had many adventures there, and became, after a time, the Kings and Queens of Narnia. Their names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. Doubtless, you know them very well. But this is a story about a boy named Martin Miller, who shared a part in their adventure, though if they were ever aware of each other, it does not come into this tale.

Martin was fifteen years old and deathly afraid of being found out about this: lying about one's age is a very serious crime in the army. He was small with long legs and long arms connected to a short body, and his uniform hung off of him like wet bed sheets in the rain in which he now found himself caught. The rain came down steadily, and it was so thick that he couldn't see very far to either side of the road. Being caught out in the rain is bad enough if you are prepared for it, and worse if you have far to go. By the time Martin passed the first leg of his journey, it was perfectly miserable going. His wet things slapped against him most unpleasantly with every step and his boots sloshed unceasingly. Despite this, he pressed on, though he grumbled all the while.

But when he came to a place where the creek that ran alongside the path had become so swollen that it ran over its banks and across the road in a muddy torrent, he had to admit defeat.

"Oh, bother this weather!" he moaned, wringing the tails of his sopping woolen coat uselessly at the edge of the deluge. The lust for an adventure that he'd felt when he joined up was dying out, replaced with the stone-sober reality of life as a soldier.

Martin was beginning to think he'd made the wrong decision, forgetting of course that he had volunteeredfor this duty of running messages between headquarters and the field for a chance to see the countryside.

"But to see it on foot!" he lamented, wincing as his blistered toes found another stony infiltrator in his boot. "And just where am I, anyway?"

The paved road that he'd been following had given way to gravel without his realizing it. He looked about and realized that he could just make out the shape of a large house off to his left through the falling rain. A short hedgerow was in the way, but the beginning of an idea took form in his mind.

There ought to be a telephone in such a large, old house as that. He could ask to use it. Certainly there would be a fire in the hearth that he could warm his cold hands by and dry his boots. He might even be offered a cup of tea. At the very least he should telephone his Captain and explain his predicament. They might even send round a motor car.

Making up his mind, he deftly hopped over the hedge, (as he'd learned in his training, not in the manner of his childhood) and found himself in a private lane with a gate. Before him was the large house. It stood there in the rain looking very sad and stately in the grey light. There was a garden with a stream and a path leading up to the front steps.

The gate gave him pause. It was wrought of iron, but it only reached up to his waist and seemed to be unlocked. It seemed more of a polite deterrence against the postman than a real attempt to keep anyone out. After a moment's hesitation, Martin reached out and tried it.

The gate swung open lightly at his touch, confirming his suspicions. He stepped inside and shut it after him. But now that he was inside the yard, he felt suddenly timid. As he looked up at the old house, with all of its dark, shuttered windows and frowning orifices, he was reminded that he had never quite liked these old houses, feeling them to be full of ghosts and cobwebs and dusty old suits of armor. He almost turned back, but at that moment, on the second storey, he thought he saw a curtain flutter.

Supposing he'd been seen? To turn back and go out the way he'd came was very suspicious. He'd have to go through with it.

Balling up his courage, he marched up to the old oaken door and seized the big silver knocker. _Boom! Boom!_ The percussion was sharp and louder than he'd intended. He winced and hoped he'd not sounded more insistent than he'd meant to.

He was just about to try again with the flat of his hand when the door swung inward. Martin found himself wilting suddenly beneath the gaze of a very tough-looking woman. She had very sharp eyes with very dark small pupils-like a hawk, he thought-the kind that can make the boldest child confess to mischief. He knew he must look ridiculous standing there in his dripping, ill-fitting uniform. She looked him over and came logically to the wrong conclusion.

"No soldiers here," she said flatly. "We'll not be billeting every Tommy that comes up this way. If it's room you want, try the Overburrys' up the road. Good day to you."

She made as if to shut the door, and Martin found his voice just in time.

"Wait!" he cried. "I'm very sorry. Sorry to bother you. I'm a British Officer." His voice played tricks on him, so what he'd intended to sound very authoritative came out sounding nasally and rather like a child, he thought.

But the doorkeeper's eyes crinkled wryly.

"Oh, are you?" she asked with the barest curl of a smile on her lips. "How old are you?"

For some reason, Martin had trouble with his reply. "Eighteen-" died on his lips. That's what he was going to say, but for some reason, those terrible black pupils had a profound effect on him, and he said: "Fifteen. But I'll be sixteen in April," he added very quickly.

"More children!" she scoffed, glancing briefly over her shoulder. Martin didn't take her meaning. But she turned back. "And what may you be wanting?"

"Please, ma'am..." he began.

The woman's eyes flashed. "You may call me Macready."

"Please, Mrs. Macready," he said again. "I wondered if I might be able to use the telephone. I've become lost, you see, and this dreadful rain!" He held up his sopping things for inspection.

She stared down her nose at him. Martin felt that he was not making a very good impression at all. He was starting to regret calling, and wished more than anything that he could slip away back the way he'd come. But the housekeeper's gaze held him transfixed.

"Whether you might be able to use it or not, I can only guess. And as for this rain, well, that is the country for you, and the pond has been very low of late." He thought she might shut the door on him, but to his surprise, Macready relented. She held the door open and beckoned. "Alright, come along!"

Not knowing what else to do, Martin followed her inside to a marble-floored entry hall. As he made to remove his coat, he saw the housekeeper tense. He remembered that he had his pistol belt on. The Webley in its shining black leather holster that was the source of so much pride felt suddenly very crude and uncivilized in such a setting. Without knowing wholly why, he felt his cheeks burn with shame.

" _That_ will have to go," said Mrs. Macready. "The Professor will not tolerate it in his house. Out to the woodshed with it."

Embarrassed, Martin practically leapt to do as she said, forgetting to ask who the Professor was, or where the woodshed might be. He found it, of course, in the garden where it ought to be, but he forgot his coat, and by the time he got back, he was soaked to the skin. Macready was waiting, but when she saw him, she seemed to take pity and ordered him upstairs to wash while she went to fetch the telephone.

Left with the clear command: "The Professor is _not_ to be disturbed!", Martin tramped up the stairs, wondering who the Professor was, and how he could avoid disturbing him if he did not know where to find him. At any rate, this did not seem likely. The house was simply enormous-far larger than any that Martin had ever seen. There were flights and flights of stairs. Some obviously led nowhere, others opened into hallways, or galleries or rooms filled with books, or other flights running the opposite way. (He found these quite peculiar.) This he deduced from peering into the doors that were open. He did not bother with those that were closed, for fear of running suddenly into the Professor. Once or twice, he thought he heard voices. These he avoided, and scurried quickly past.

He found the washing-room by luck more than anything and had a splendid washing-up. The water was hot, and there was a wonderfully soft green towel for his face and hands. Though his shirt and pants were still damp, he felt remarkably better when he'd finished.

So much better, in fact, that a little boyish curiosity began to creep back in, overshadowing his fear of the menacing Professor and his housekeeper. It was a marvelous house, and he didn't know when he might have a chance to look around such a grand place again. He decided to do a little exploring. "On my way back, of course," he thought. "Just a peek here and there." He had washed up rather quickly, and no doubt he would not be missed for a few minutes.

He poked his head out of the washing-room and looked left and right. The hall was clear. Had he known it, the sudden appearance of his tousled brown head was quite comical, looking rather like a ruffled thrush peering out from a knothole, but so focused on his mission was he that it never occurred to him. He crept out quietly, and stole away down the hall, the opposite direction from which he'd come.

He moved slowly, always listening for the telltale creak of footsteps or the turning of a handle that would spell his doom. I'm afraid to say that he had a marvelous time. Though sneaking around in someone else's house is, of course, terrible manners, it is also something that we all at some point have wished to do-and what a house it was!

His initial belief that the house must be full of cobwebs and old, musty-smelling things turned out to be only partially true. There were certainly old things in that house; curious things. Strange artifacts in glass, old tapestries, and even a suit of armor. But it was obvious that Mrs. Macready kept a very tidy house, and there was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. But just as Martin was becoming aware that an uncomfortable amount of time had surely passed, and that he was well-overdue to return, he came upon a room quite unlike the others.

It was empty, except for a wardrobe, standing alone in the far end of the room. This seemed odd enough that Martin was compelled to turn aside for a moment and look at it. It seemed a strange thing to grace a room, and he felt that there surely must be some significance to it. Wild ideas of secret passages and false walls concealing treasures sprang to mind. What if the Professor was not really a professor at all, but a moonshiner, or a smuggler, or a mad scientist performing dark experiments in a secret chamber?

Without meaning to, he crept inside the room and drew up to it. It was a plain wardrobe, as far as he could see, made of oak, and unadorned. It closed with a simple clasp. On a whim, he took hold of the handle and tried it. It was unlocked!

He eased the door open and saw, as he'd half-expected, that it was full of thick fur coats. Martin felt silly. He forced a chuckle just in case anyone was watching.

"Hah! Just a wardrobe. Of course."

But just in case, he snuck a glance over his shoulder and thrust his arm inside, just to be sure that there wasn't a false back. To his surprise, his hand passed through the first wall of fur and found a second just behind it.

"Hullo, that's odd," he said. The wardrobe didn't seem nearly that large from the outside. Glancing left, then right, he did a very ridiculous thing. Bracing himself, he clambered inside the wardrobe. It was very dark inside, and smelled of mothballs. Feeling positively silly, he reached out, expecting to feel the smooth back panel under his touch at any second. But he did not. Frowning, he edged his way through the brace of coats, working his way deeper and deeper into the wardrobe.

After the fifth step, he stopped.

"Why, this must be a positively enormous wardrobe!" He said this just to hear the sound of his own voice in a dark space, which can be very comforting. For he had actually begun to suspect that he really _had_ wandered into some sort of secret passage, but where it led, he couldn't say. Two desires warred in him at once: the desire to go back and forget all about it, thereby avoiding any danger. And a strange, sharp longing to press on and have an adventure, in the face of it; the same desire that had driven him to join the army despite the Germans.

He quivered there, poised between decisions for a long moment, and then the adventurous side won out, and he took a half step forward. That step proved enough. He took another, then another, and suddenly, he found that he was no longer pushing through soft furs, but something rough and resinous, and even prickly.

"Why, if I didn't know better, I would say these were tree branches!" he said to himself. Before he could wonder further, he stepped suddenly onto a slick surface that crunched slightly when he pressed on it. He knelt down and took some in his hand. It was some kind of powder, and very cold. He straightened up and saw a light ahead. It had a cheerful glow, like lanterns in the-.

"Snow!" he exclaimed, too elated by his discovery to wonder how this miracle had happened. He pushed forward, and to his amazement, he stumbled out of a thick fir bough and into a winter's night as perfect and cold as any he'd ever seen on a postcard.

Snow fell softly on his pinkening ears. All around him there seemed to be a silent wood, hissing with the sled-runner sound of falling flakes. Strangest of all was the light in the distance. He couldn't quite make it out, but it had a pleasant, homey sort of glow. Feeling half in a dream, he made for it, and found, to his perfect surprise that it was lamppost sticking up out of the snow as perfectly straight as any in London. He could see his silvery breath by its light.

He had expected something strange, so he was not taken wholly by surprise. He rather suspected that he was still somewhere on the grounds of the old house. But if so, it was a keen bit of trickery. He could feel the cold wind on his face and feel the tingling in his hands. Martin looked back, and to his relief, he could still see the wardrobe door that he had come in by. This was real!

It was all so strange and wonderful that he laughed aloud. What a discovery!

"That's a nice sound," a voice piped up from over his shoulder, startling him badly. "Been a long time since I've 'erd that sound in these parts. But not so loud, if you please! She's got spies everywhere, you know."

Martin whirled around, looking for the owner of the voice.

"Who's there?" he cried in alarm.

" _Shh!_ " the voice hissed. "Down here, if you please!"

At the voice's urging, Martin looked down and got quite a fright. Crouching in the shadow of a thick fir tree was the largest badger he'd ever seen. What's more, it appeared to be wearing a wool scarf and matching red mittens!

"I say," Martin gasped, forgetting his manners. "Why, you're positively enormous! What on earth do your sort eat in here?"

"Toast, tea, and a nice fried egg when I can get it," the badger said crossly, momentarily forgetting his temper, for he was, of course, the one who had been speaking. He was a Talking Animal, a badger from a good family, and not at all pleased to be referred to as 'your sort'.

"I'm sorry," said Martin, taken quite aback. "It's just... I've never met a _talking_ badger before."

"Then I'm afraid you've lacked for good company," the badger whispered sharply, hunkering back toward the trunk so that all Martin could see of him was a pair of flashing green eyes and a large round nose. "And if you don't lower your voice and get out of that light, you're liable to be seen!"

Martin didn't like the sound of that. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what the danger could be. The silent woods suddenly seemed a great deal less safe. A creepy feeling crawled down his spine. The shadows seemed full of some hidden menace.

"Seen?" he asked, lowering his voice. "By whom?"

A twig snapped nearby. The badger's ears suddenly flattened to his head, as if he'd heard something that frightened him. He bared his fangs.

"Quickly!" he growled. _"Hide!"_

Martin didn't need much urging. Without hesitation, he dropped down and wriggled under the tree after the badger. To his surprise, there was a hollow space beneath the tree where snow had piled up around it, and he rolled over the lip with a tumble and a thump. There was a deep, black thing there, and he realized that it was the mouth of a tunnel: earthy and choked with roots, but wide enough to admit his shoulders. Without realizing it, he'd arrived at the badger's front doorstep.

"Quick!" the owner called, the sound seeming to come from far away under the earth. "Follow me!"

Martin didn't quite like the idea of crawling into the dark like a worm, but at that moment, there came a snarling and growling sound from just outside that froze his bones. With wide eyes, he lay down flat and forced himself into the tunnel on his elbows and knees. The earth swallowed him, and he found himself crawling blind through an oozy damp-smelling place that seemed likely to collapse and suffocate him at any moment. It was quite unlike anything he had ever done before. He felt the earth pressing in on him from all sides, and his head scraped the roof of the tunnel with every inch. He summoned his courage and crawled all the way inside.

It was not a moment too soon. Behind him, there was the sound of snuffling and feverish digging. He crawled faster. Just when it seemed that he could take it no more, his head suddenly broke through a mat of some soft-woven thing, and he emerged panting and trembling into a badger den.


End file.
